"Geographing" The Glebe Home.

My son, "Devo" introduced me to the concept of Geocaching some time ago. For those of you who do not know what it is here is a definition from Wikipedia:

"Geocaching is an outdoor treasure-hunting game in which the participants use a Global Positioning System (GPS) receiver or other navigational techniques to hide and seek containers (called "geocaches" or "caches") anywhere in the world. A typical cache is a small waterproof container containing a logbook and "treasure," usually toys or trinkets of little monetary value. Today, well over 410,000 geocaches are currently placed in 222 countries around the world, which are registered on various websites devoted to the sport."

This is my son "Devo"
In his Grandfathers Balmoral Hat.*

So, this "Sport" originated in the United States.

But in England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales they do things slightly differently....

In typical British style they do what is called "Geographing".

Here is the Geograph websites explanation:

The Geograph British Isles project aims to collect geographically representative photographs and information for every square kilometre of the UK and the Republic of Ireland, and you can be part of it.

What is Geographing?

• It's a game - how many grid squares will you contribute?
• It's a geography project for the people
• It's a national photography project
• It's a good excuse to get out more!
• It's a free and open online community project for all

The aim of the Geograph website is to be a widely appealing web site that will gradually produce a freely accessible archive of educationally useful, geographically located photographs of the British Isles.

The Ordnance Survey grid has been chosen as the basis for the geographic referencing system.

To get an idea of the type of image we are interested in, think what a child sat looking at a map in a geography lesson might find useful when trying to make sense of what a the human and physical geographical features in a given grid square actually look like, or what would he see if he looked further a field from a given viewpoint.

Blah, Blah, Blah Blog....

Their website is: http://www.geograph.org.uk/

"So why are you doing this to us obee?"

Well, I was searching for Postal Codes for the Killaloo area so I could send a letter to a possible surviving "Glenn" relative who may or may not still live on the land in Brackfield. I was told by a contact who's last name is "Pollock", who grew up in the Killaloo/Claudy area, that such a person or family, may still exist and yet be farming in Brackfield.

And then I found Geograph.

So now, I have actual pictures of Killaloo, Brackfield, and the surrounding environs.

And my Girl friend "Anonymous" responded with a "yeah, so..." But I have been wondering just what this place looked like for most of my adult life. ..And this is a BIG deal to me!

This is a map of modern day Killaloo.

...And now,
I would like to take you
on a Geograph Virtual tour:

1) Ougtagh Road.
On some maps the townland is spelled "Oughtagh".

2) Newcumber Presbyterian Church.
Located at Killaloo.

3) Killaloo Orange Hall.
Located at Killaloo.

4) Cumber Church of Ireland.
Derry & Raphoe is the Diocese which Cumber parish is in.

4 also) Killaloo Townland.

Looking towards Slieveboy** in the distance.

(That is rush in the foreground)

...and yes, this is where my new Blog Header came from...

5) Killaloo.
Lettermire Hill is in the background.

6) Looking towards Brackfield Townland.
In the direction of Lettermire Hill.

6 also) Ness Wood.
Some new plantings are protected by a fence.

7) Kilcatten Road.
Some maps use a spelling variation of Kiltcaltan.

8) Road at Toneduff.
Heading in the direction of Claudy.

9) Ness Garden Centre.
Located at Brackfield near Burntollet Bridge.

9 also) The Burntollet River.
The Burntollet river where it emerges from the Ness woods.
It flows into the river Faughan, about two kilometres
to the south west of here at Burntollet Bridge.

10) Lettermire Hill. (great wet hill-side.)
Looking eastwards across the slope of the hill.

11) Slieve Kirk.

Not pictured here, but indicated
on the map as a reference point.
(not to be confused with Slieveboy.)

12) Legaghory Townland.
Looking east to Killaloo.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
this concludes our tour for today.
Thank-you very much for coming!


Have a nice day....

Oh yeah, Most of these pictures were taken by: Kenneth Allen © Copyrighted and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence. He is retired and has an accumulated points total of: 3661 Geograph Points. "...The things people do with their retirement time..."

9 also), "The Burntollet River" was taken by: Kay Atherton © Copyrighted and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence. Kay is by Kenneth's standards a novice with an accumulated points total of a mere: 39 Geograph Points. I like her style though, maybe she doesn't have as many points as Kenneth but I'm rooting' for her! Hope she didn't get her feet wet when she took that beautiful picture.

obeedude/26/June/84

*Obviously this blog has little or nothing to do with him or the hat, I just think its a neat portrait and I was itching for a reason to use it....

**"Slieveboy" is Southeast of Killaloo, it lies off of this map to the lower right hand corner, towards Claudy, not to be confused with "Slieve Kirk in the lower left hand corner of the map indicated by the # 11)

Fathers Day 17/june/07

...if Dad looks a little "Blown Away!" here, it is because he was having his picture taken, just after someone stepped out of the frame, and just before someone stepped into the frame for their picture.

I like this photo because it looks like he was beamed in there by aliens from the "Starship Tour-bus".

James Gilmour O'Brien
At the Border of England and Scotland
Sept/1982 Age 57

Although my Dad was a big influence on me with respect to how a man can be tactile, caring, loving, and still be masculine, righteous and honorable, my Mom was the one was the artistic bent.

Dad was a veracious reader but I don't think he ever wrote anything. He often professed to "not understand my poetry". (At the time I was going through my ee cummings, mixed with Tristan Tzara, blended with a little Francis Picabia thrown in for good measure "phase".) I think the Grammarian in him just couldn't handle the way I mangled and played with words.

Mom had a palette knife in my hand and oil paint all over me when I was "a wain". She was always there at every one of my openings, and I still kid her that the "frustrated Artist" in her lives vicariously through me.

Mom has been in and out of the Hospital allot recently.

This Northern Ireland Landscape Photograph
was Hand Painted by my Mom: Doris E.T. Burns O'Brien.

Mom and Dad made a good pairing from the beginning. They were both born in 1925. They met when they were in the third grade. The story goes that Mom sent Dad her first love letter in third grade.

This is my mom in the 1930s
...about the age she began sending love letters...
(I wonder why my Dad wasn't scared off by that hat?)

Mom and Dad were into the Ancestral search thing, when I was younger and I didn't seem to care. They went to England, Ireland, Scotland & Wales when Dad retired.

The following is a poem that shows how I feel about my Ancestors now:

Me Ma & Da,

They were never privy to things

that I have come to know

Burns, Gilmour, Pollock & O'Brien

Poets and Priests on every side

was there ever a need to choose

to become what I have come to be

the past is comforting

it billets my future

and beckons me come....

obeedude 17/June/07

This is my Mom in Kerry, Ireland,
Sept of 1982 age 57.

"The Pot O' Gold at the Beginning & End of Dad's Rainbow!"

I got the best of both worlds from both of them.

Happy Fathers Day!
17/june/07

Comprehending Incomprehensible:

"Obeedude was totally incomprehensible and if you missed it you will have to have him explain it to you. Something about making up the language. Check out his blog today, he does have a wonderful growler thing-y on it. Which reminds me, Alan's new broadside has Mark's growler poem on it."

O.K., to answer Barb's Barb, This is whats-up:

If you scroll down to the bottom of this blog you will notice that I have been reading quite allot over the past year. Not included in these lists are the Genealogy Books, Text Books and other Apocrypha necessary for me to research and complete the Novel I have been writing based upon my the lives of my ancestors tentatively entitled ©"A Wasterly Gail."

As some have noticed my blog has gone for long periods without postings. This is because I was Reading and Absorbing. Then, for some time I was Reading and Avoiding. So, I spruced up the prologue and first four chapters, and, was about to hand them off to a former school teacher friend of mine, who was going to "give them the once over" with her infamous "Red Pen".

Then, one of my "Church Lady" friends put me onto the Ulster-Scots-Agency Website. To which I have a link listed here on my blog titled Ulster Scots Poetry. There you can listen to living and writing Ulster Poets reading their poetry in dialect.

Subsequently, I came to realize that I had written those chapters in a dialect that my ancestors would never have spoken. I find it hard enough to put words in my ancestors mouths to begin with, but to realize that I was putting the wrong words in their mouths was enough to make me conclude that I had even more reading to do!

So, I have endeavored to correct this problem by attempting to teach myself the Ulster-Scot Language more commonly known in Northern Ireland as "The Hamley Tongue" after James Fentons seminal work of the same name.

To that end I have been reading Poets of the the Ulster Province Namely the ones sighted and a series of Illustrated Children's books written by Philip Robinson based on Ulster-Scot Myths entitled:

• "Esther Quaen o tha Ulidian Pechts" by Philip Robinson
• "Fergus an tha Stane o Destinie" by Philip Robinson

(interesting note here: Phillip Robinson with two "l"s is the real life name of my nephew.... yet another instance of God saying "HELLO MARK!" or what? I think so anyway.)


The best resource I have found and the one that I am currently enjoying the most is: "Rhyming Weavers & other poets of Antrim and Down. edited by the poet John Hewitt, with forward by Tom Paulin" which I was able to purchase online from UlsterBooks.com.

I have as yet been unable to obtain either "Ulster-Scots: A Grammer of the Traditional Written and Spoken Language." by Philip Robinson OR: James Fenton's The Hamely Tongue. My only access to them has been through www.ulsterscotsagency.com website and the YouTube links I have added here.

Comprehending Incomprehensible:

Having set myself to the task of essentially learning a new language at the age of 49, I decided last week to try to compose a poem in "The Hamley Tongue", and then translate it into the language that I speak, and at the age of 49 I am still trying to learn: "North American English".

It is my intent to return to this verse in a years time and try to determine just how successful or unsuccessful I was at this attempt.

By way of introduction to this task I supplied my fellow poets at "EOTNP" with a xerox copy from "The Rhyming Weavers" of an excerpt from the chapter entitled "A NOTE on reading THE BARDS' VERSES" which I found interesting and I also include here:


"As Tom Scot, that fine poet, writes in his trenchant introduction to The Penguin Book of Scottish Verse (1970): 'We today live in a world in which spelling, and that obsessive neurosis, imposed on us by teachers at school, was originally imposed on teachers, and on all society, by ignorant printers who couldn't spell. They had to have everything reduced to an easy standard that they could learn'."

Haven beeen a pwinter fer miur theen fifftween yiers I feel I shood objeckt!

Or, perhaps simply use this as an excuse to go write any old way I feel like without regard for the obsessive neurosis called spelling.

But as much fun as that might be, I am serious about learning "The Hamley Tongue", and doing my ancestors justice.

As anti-climactic as this then may seem...here is the verse in question:

Atween:

aye tha benmaist speirins…

oot o thon bagan

thenicht frea tha tajersome

treadmill o assault

is biggit themorras

lathder o succuss

ach! aiblins naw….

*

Between:

always the innermost questions…

out of that begun

tonight from the tiresome

treadmill of assault

is built tomorrows

ladder of success

oh well, perhaps not…

obeedude 14/june/07

So please! If you have made it thus far in this rant, Comment and let me know what you think.

Then, next year, perhaps revisit it with me, and Comment some more.

PeaceOnYou!
obeedude.

O'Brien meets O'Sullivan

(The Hand of Man and the Hand of God?)
Poet Dennis Sullivan passes the Growler to Poet O'Brien.
O'Brien to the left, O'Sullivan at the right as usual...

Big night last night! Alan Casline of Benevolent Bird Press Published a broadside of my poem "Passing the Growler:" The poem is a rumination on a life lived. It was spurred by a few lines from a Patrick Kavanagh poem. The Growler in question was handed down to me by my Father. Modern day Growlers are half gallon bottles used to transport beer home from a brewery. In my Great Great Grandfathers day they were made of tin as in the photo above. The name may have come from the sound the beer made when escaping from the tin on the way back from the Pub. My father used to tell me of my Grandmother's Father (as a child) being sent around to the rear door of the Pub with the tin to be filled with draft beer, which was then brought home to be consumed. The phrase "Fetch tha Growler" meant it was time to go to the Pub for a refill. And, you had better be careful on the way back, because the lore in our household held that the name "Growler" came from the altitude adopted by the 'Ol Man if you spilled too much on the way back home!

A Wood cut by Alan Casline:
Artist, Publisher,and Poet Extraordinare
inspired by the Poem.

Oh, Yeah The Poem!

"Through the mist-chill fields I went

With a pitch-fork on my shoulder

Less for use than for devilment."

*Patrick Kavanagh

Passing the Growler:

Less for use

than for devil meant,

inescapable, preordained,

predestined, predetermined…

With a shoulder at the pitch

erect, yet teetering, I giggle,

I swoop, I sway, I lurch,

my timber put up.

Through the mist,

Through the chill,

to the fields,

into the box,

into the hole,

Encumbered?

only by a feeling,

I lumber, then shuffle,

I shamble, and sometimes think to clod,

My timber, perhaps, put down.

I had the dream today,

the box, the box, the box,

inescapable, predestined,

a doorway into darkness,

the portal through the mist

Yet, I would enter with a smile,

a life lived, some things left,

for others to make done,

content with that which

I have started and

that which I leave finished…

my timber pitched, a light to find my way,

smirking, I chuckle as I go,

with a desert fork on my shoulder

less for use than for devilment.

obeedude 01/apr/07

O'Brien isn't Growling any more,
" 'e's goot 'is Guinness!"

Vocabulary Raku:

once the slurry of words

infused with grog hardens to ware

you apply lead glaze to the bisque

then, carefully lay on a shelf of stone

in the traditional method, with cones

heating until polished to a porous unfinish

allowing the words to oxidize with meaning

next, you remove them from the

glowering hot still glimmering

set them in a galvanized garbage can,

filled with sawdust, straw and

newsprint; making them crackle

as they carbonize and blacken

to the noir reduction

of the fired lexicon.

obeedude/24/May/07

A sketch of the battle of Bulls Run, when we met the enimy and they oferd fire on us:

(by special correspondence to the Sunday Mercury from the battlefield.)

near Washington 23 July 1861

*

While the Artillery seemed

to be assembling for conference

amid the sun-dried bowlders,

fishwives scolded and nagged

railing excitedly into

an unspeakable jumble

a rising of din over battle.

*

An Officer waved his

gauntleted hand sweeping

wildly at the air

of unwilling curses

despite being dragged at heals

by a besplashed charger

the western sky along.

*

Partly smothered in red

as a blue haze of evening

settled upon the field

he was loosed to the ground

rising to the level of his feet

twisting with the movement

plunged he deep into earth.

*

Pressing his hands

through the wound

a single afflicted groan

wrenched from him

causing him to expire

his face, then painted

stupefied with a smile.

obeedude/03/may/07

This poem is an impression and a fiction of my imagination. It is based on the family letters I have read , as well as the recent novels that I have consumed. I took Art's suggestion and added what seemed like period language that I created. It is dated after the actual battle, as if it were a letter written from Washington, when the New York State Militia would have been straggling back to their camps, and writing home to describe what had transpired in this disastrous battle and its aftermath. The actual event described here-in may well have taken place at any battle during the civil war. I chose Bull Run (or Bulls Run as many of the participants called it) because it was a battle of confusion and tragic blunders on both sides. The Confederates won but much to their surprise, the Union lost miserably and to their surprise were so devastated that many injuries and losses took place in the stampede from the battlefield. There were Débutantes and Senators out for a picnic to watch on a lark. Before they knew it, they went from picnic to panic.

The Flank Marker was used by the New York State Melita, 2nd Regiment. It is this flag that I believe James Gilmour and his Tent mate Francis Perry defended bravely at the First Battle of Bull Run. For their gallant efforts they were written up in the New York Papers by their Lieutenant Simpson. It was then reprinted in the Derry Papers by James' friend George MGonikle. (I have not yet found these actual articles and base this information on more than one letter from more than one correspondent.)

The men were awarded with a testimonial signed by their piers: their former employers, friends and associates. Also enclosed and accompanying the testimonial were Two Ten dollar Gold pieces meant to serve as Medals of Honor "besides being convenient to provide such normities as are Not furnished You ...."

The Image of the Flank Marker was found on the New York State Military Museum Web Site. The Flag has been restored by Textile Conservators for The New York State Battle Flag Project. A Worthy Cause which I whole heartedly support.

Visit their Website on-line. Go to the New York State Military Museum in Saratoga Springs New York!

No poetry today, no paintings to display, just a some cute tin-types of my ancestor and a little dubious speculation....

James Alexander Gilmour

in his Morrison Clan Tartan

with Diced Glenngarry Hat

Circa 1870

.

The Clan Tartan is the most readily available tartan, often being produced by the larger Mills. It is usually woven accurately and correctly named. It is often recognized by people outside the clan. Historically, it was traditional to have one tartan made up to be worn at the great hunts. This custom is probably the origin of the first Hunting tartans. Later, a hunting tartan was sometimes designed when a Clan tartan was seen as inappropriately bright for outdoor wear. A red ground for example, would not lend itself to camouflage, so a more subdued green or brown ground tartan was adopted. In other cases, the dark Hunting tartan is the oldest, and the original tartan of the clan, with others being added later for variety. Therefore, in some cases, the Hunting tartan and the clan tartans are the same. Despite the name, the Modern colors are the oldest of the color groups in existence today. The Morrison Clan has three Tartans: The Morrison Modern (Darker Green Ground) The Morrison OC (a Lighter Green Ground) and the Morrison Red Modern(with a predominantly Red Ground). As the Original of this Tintype is black and white it is possible to speculate that this is the Morrison Modern Red Tartan.

James Alexander Gilmour

in his Dress Morrison Tartan Circa 1870

.

The Dress Tartan:

The Dress version of the Clan's tartan usually has the clan sett laid over a white ground color. This version is indicated by placing the word "dress" before or after the clan name, as in "Dress Morrison". The Dress tartan, was created as an alternative to the darker, everyday clan tartan. It was especially nice and bright for festive occasions, as the name implies. It may have been worn by both sexes. It was considered a sign of wealth to acquire more than one tartan. To wear clothing in the most impractical color, white, was most extravagant. Old tax records show that a white "plaide" was more expensive to buy than a colored one, and of course, maintenance would be more difficult. The darker "camouflage" tartans were preferred for hunting and for military uniforms, for obvious practical reasons. So, perhaps the desire for a "dress" tartan for festive occasions is logical, and would certainly be in keeping with the temperament of the Victorians. To have a new tartan created for a special occasion would have been an expensive but distinctive undertaking.*



*(much of the source information contained here is abridged and edited from "Scottish Tartans and Family Names" by Terry L. Griest. Copyright 1986 Terry L. Griest. A definitive, and yes, Hard Core read.)

A Letter from Home:

Robert Gilmour

I could not bee with you

New York, 23 June 1865

I sit down to convay some of my ideas to you on paper

I have got along prity well since you left

it is prety hard to fill your place in my eyes

in reality the[re] ar[e] few can doo it

I am ancious how your howrs pafs

if ever you give me a thought atall

***

all that troubles me is the sleeping

I am going to go out to the pasure tomorrow evening

in the place whare

I would like to be my self

I cannot get along for the sleeping as I thought I could

***

my dear pet tak[e] good care

I can write but litle more to night

believe me as ever

your afection[ate] husband

Robert

good Night My dear pet

good Night.

Mary Pollock Gilmour

As time has not permitted that I complete parts II & III of the Pneumatic Retrospective I am posting this poem. Well, actually, its a poem made up from my GGGrandfathers' words taken from a love letter to his wife while she was on a trip back to County Londonderry. I have removed the gossip** and conversational asides to form the emotional content laced through out the letters, expressing his longing for her, and his distress at their being apart, into a poetic format. It may not be poetry to you but it is to me. And I am sure that it would seem so, to anyone who has been separated by time, circumstances and great distance, from the one you truly love.

**O.K., So here is some of the gossip too:

[...dear Mary I think the[re] are some thing up next door

Mrs Neal was brought home drunk tonight +

the old man hase not been hear this too nights

I think the[re] will be a brake up in the shanty prity soon

she sends her love to you sutch sorts it is but

you know she is drunk...]

A Lower Cumber Ordnance Survey Memoir:

Once, there was a Doctor named McAdoo

in the habit of staying many days

at the Glebe House, Rectory, Killaloo.

Upon hearing of some treasures concealed;

he mustered all the Rector's sturdy men

labourers; together out in the fields

Provided with sledges, crowbars, and adzes;

went to McAvraghan's farm at Slaghmanus:

the Giant's grave, to the ground, to be razed.

Removing the topstone; they succeeded;

then commenced to the standing columns

obstructing their progress, as they proceeded.

Digging up where the money was concealed;

they made a great hole from the old Giant's grave.

Alas, when the cairn was destroyed, it revealed:

Chisels, compasses, and great mounds of dirts;

hammers, spurs, an old sword with no stave:

but nought a single brooch for their skirt's.

So, the Doctor and Mustered men went home.

Then McAvraghan filled up the empty pit,

he covered the grave, and left it a loam.

obeedude 22/Mar/07

This Poem is based on an actual account taken from the "Ordnance Survey Memoirs of Ireland: Parishes of Co. Londonderry IX 1832-8, West Londonderry".

The incident in question here happened in the year 1816. The name of the Doctor was listed as [Blank] so I took out my 'ol "Poetic License" and gave him the name of "McAdoo" to work with the rhyme scheme, (The actual name may have been Spencer but when I used that I was very very tempted to slip into a Naughty Limerick and that is not the way I wanted to go...)

The literal translation for "Slaghmanus" a townland in 19th Century Northern Ireland is: The Grave of "Manus".


My Ancestor, Alexander Gilmour was born born in or about 1800 or 1802. If by this time he was an Apprenticed Cooper, to as I suspect, Mr. McLaughlin or MGonikle (I am not sure yet which was the name of his "Master") at the Glebe House, he would have been 14 to 16 years of age. Just the right age and frame of mindset to go "Treasure Hunting". (O.K., maybe Grave Robbing is more correct here....)

So anyway, My Fathers, Mothers, Fathers, Uncle: James Gilmour of the Gilmour family letters, from the time period 1860-1862, that got me set out on this track in the first place, is always talking about gathering "Sacred Relics" from the "Sacred soil of Va" in his letters to his brother Robert Gilmour. Or, promising to send things like a "chip of the door where John Brown was imprisoned" or "ruins from the old Carpenters shop" (at Harpers Ferry) home to his friend "Mr Cummins" So, imagine my finding this little tidbit in the Lower Cumber Ordnance Survey Memoir.... A "Chip" off the 'ol Block perhaps? ;)